Sometimes when I wish I were writing on some other topic – knitting, say, or clutter – I think how those subjects can find their way via a twisty path back to Alex. Take knitting. Decades passed before I knit anything, and when I picked up needles again, it was because Alex had arrived and was in the hospital, and I was stressed and wanted to make him something.
More years passed, and I picked up needles again about two years ago to make mittens for Alex and Ned because I’d read them The Mitten by Jan Brett, which reminded me of the great mittens my grandmother used to make for me. (I can’t find a picture of these awesome skunk mittens. Will have to take a picture of the ones I made.) This triggered a full-on knitting mania, which has stuck mainly because, I think, it’s so soothing. It’s my yoga, I tell people. It’s how I stay calm.
Inside, however, I’m not calm. I’m tense. I’m worried about Alex, I’m worried about money, I’m worried about his future and I’m worried about mine. The only time I’m not worried is when I’m knitting. So I guess that’s why I’m doing it a couple of hours a day.